Perdido Street Station Part 21

Yagharek was meticulous. He turned every single page. He saw furtive shots that had been stolen from behind walls, and vertiginous views from the air. A slow kaleidoscope of mutation and violence, petty wars fought between unfathomable monstrosities over no-man's-lands of s.h.i.+fting slag and nightmare architecture.

"There were twenty militia, Sacramundi the heliotypist and three research scientists, plus a couple of engineers who stayed in the airs.h.i.+p the whole time. Seven militia, Sacramundi and one chymist came out of Suroch. Some were Torque-wounded. By the time they got back to New Crobuzon one militiaman had died. Another had barbed tentacles where his eyes should be, and pieces of the scientist's body were disappearing every night. No blood, no pain, just . . . smooth holes in her abdomen or arm or whatever. She killed herself."

Isaac remembered first hearing the story told as an anecdote by an unorthodox history professor. Isaac had chased it up, following a trail of footnotes and old newspapers. The history had been forgotten, trans.m.u.ted into emotional blackmail for children-"Be good or I'll send you to Suroch where the monsters are!" It took a year and a half before Isaac saw a copy of Sacramundi's report, and another three before he could match the price asked for it.

He thought he recognized some of the thoughts flickering almost invisibly under Yagharek's impa.s.sive skin. They were the ideas every unorthodox undergraduate had at some time entertained.

"Yag," Isaac said softly, "we ain't going to use the Torque. You might be thinking 'You still use hammers and some people are murdered with them.' Right? Eh? 'Rivers can flood and kill thousands or they can drive water turbines.' Yes? Trust me . . . speaking as one who used to think the Torque was terribly terribly exciting . . . it's not a exciting . . . it's not a tool tool. It's not not a hammer, it's not like water. It's . . . the Torque is a hammer, it's not like water. It's . . . the Torque is rogue power rogue power. We're not talking crisis energy here, right? Get that right right out of your head. Crisis is the energy underpinning the whole of physics. Torque's not about physics. It's not out of your head. Crisis is the energy underpinning the whole of physics. Torque's not about physics. It's not about about anything. It's . . . it's an entirely pathological force. We don't know where it comes from, why it appears, where it goes. anything. It's . . . it's an entirely pathological force. We don't know where it comes from, why it appears, where it goes. All bets are off. No rules apply. All bets are off. No rules apply. You can't tap it-well, you can try, but you've seen the results-you can't play with it, you can't trust it, you can't understand it, you sure as G.o.dsd.a.m.n-f.u.c.k can't control it." You can't tap it-well, you can try, but you've seen the results-you can't play with it, you can't trust it, you can't understand it, you sure as G.o.dsd.a.m.n-f.u.c.k can't control it."

Isaac shook his head in irritation. "Oh sure, there've been experiments and whatnot, they reckon they've got techniques to s.h.i.+eld from some effects, heighten others, and some of them might even work a little bit. But there's never never been a Torque experiment that didn't end in . . . well, in tears, at the very least. As far as I'm concerned there's only one kind of experiment we should be doing with Torque, and that's how to avoid it. Either stop it in its tracks, or run like Libintos with the drakows on his tail. been a Torque experiment that didn't end in . . . well, in tears, at the very least. As far as I'm concerned there's only one kind of experiment we should be doing with Torque, and that's how to avoid it. Either stop it in its tracks, or run like Libintos with the drakows on his tail.

"Five hundred years ago, a while after the Cacotopic Stain opened, there was a mild Torque storm that swept down from somewhere at sea, in the north-east. It hit New Crobuzon for a while." Isaac shook his head slowly. "Nothing in the league of Suroch, obviously, but still enough for an epidemic of monstrous births and some very strange tricks of cartography. All the affected buildings were pulled down sharpish. Very sensible in my view. That's when they drew up plans for the cloudtower-didn't want to leave the weather to chance. But that's broke now, and we're f.u.c.ked if we get any more random Torque currents. Fortunately, they seem to be getting rarer and rarer over the centuries. They sort of peaked peaked around the 1200s." around the 1200s."

Isaac waved his hands at Yagharek, warming to his task of denunciation and explanation.

"You know, Yag, when they realized something was up down south in the scrubland-and it didn't take them long to clock it was a ma.s.sive ma.s.sive Torque-rift-there was a lot of c.r.a.p talked about what to Torque-rift-there was a lot of c.r.a.p talked about what to call call it, and the arguments still haven't died, half a f.u.c.king millennium on. Someone named it the Cacotopic Stain, and the moniker stuck. I remember being told in college that it was a terrible populist description, because Cacotopos-Bad Place, basically-was moralizing, that the Torque was neither good nor bad, so on. Thing is . . . obviously, that's right at one level, right? Torque's not it, and the arguments still haven't died, half a f.u.c.king millennium on. Someone named it the Cacotopic Stain, and the moniker stuck. I remember being told in college that it was a terrible populist description, because Cacotopos-Bad Place, basically-was moralizing, that the Torque was neither good nor bad, so on. Thing is . . . obviously, that's right at one level, right? Torque's not evil evil . . . it's mindless, it's motiveless. That's what I reckon anyway-others disagree. . . . it's mindless, it's motiveless. That's what I reckon anyway-others disagree.

"But even if that's true, seems to me that western Ragamoll is precisely precisely a Cacotopos. That's a vast stretch of land which is totally a Cacotopos. That's a vast stretch of land which is totally beyond our power beyond our power. There's no thaumaturgy we can learn, no techniques to perfect, which'll let us do anything anything with that place. We've just got to stay the f.u.c.k out and hope it eventually ebbs away. It's a huge f.u.c.king badland crawling with Inchmen-which admittedly live outside Torque-zones, as well, but seem particularly happy there-and other things I wouldn't even bother trying to describe. So you've got a force that makes a total mockery of our sentience. That's with that place. We've just got to stay the f.u.c.k out and hope it eventually ebbs away. It's a huge f.u.c.king badland crawling with Inchmen-which admittedly live outside Torque-zones, as well, but seem particularly happy there-and other things I wouldn't even bother trying to describe. So you've got a force that makes a total mockery of our sentience. That's 'bad' 'bad' as far as I'm concerned. It could be the f.u.c.king definition of the word. See, Yag . . . it pains me to say this, it really does, I mean I'm a f.u.c.king rationalist . . . but the Torque is as far as I'm concerned. It could be the f.u.c.king definition of the word. See, Yag . . . it pains me to say this, it really does, I mean I'm a f.u.c.king rationalist . . . but the Torque is unknowable unknowable."

With a huge gush of relief, Isaac saw that Yagharek was nodding. Isaac nodded too, fervently.

"Partly selfish, all this, you understand," Isaac said, with sudden grim humour. "I mean, I don't want to be arsing around with experiments and end up turning into some . . . I don't know, some revolting thing revolting thing. Just too b.l.o.o.d.y risky. We'll stick to crisis, all right? On which topic, I've got some stuff to show you."

Isaac gently took Sacramundi's report from Yagharek's hands and returned it to the shelves. He opened a desk drawer and brought out his tentative blueprint.

He placed it in front of Yagharek, then hesitated and drew away slightly.

"Yag, old son," he said. "I really have to know . . . is that behind us, now? Are you . . . satisfied? Convinced? If you're going to f.u.c.k about with Torque, for Jabber's sake tell me now now and I'll bid you goodbye . . . and my condolences." and I'll bid you goodbye . . . and my condolences."

He studied Yagharek's face with troubled eyes.

"I have heard what you say, Grimnebulin," said the garuda, after a pause. "I . . . respect you." Isaac smiled humourlessly. "I accept what you say."

Isaac began to grin, and would have responded, except that Yagharek was looking out of the window with a melancholy stillness. His mouth was open for a long time before he spoke.

"We know of the Torque, we garuda." He paused lengthily between sentences. "It has visited the Cymek. We call it rebekhlajhnar-h rebekhlajhnar-h'k." The word was spat out with a harsh cadence like angry birdsong. Yagharek looked Isaac in the eye. "Rebekh-sackmai is Death: 'the force that ends.' is Death: 'the force that ends.' Rebekh-kavt Rebekh-kavt is Birth: 'the force that begins.' They were the First Twins, born to the worldwomb after union with her own dream. But there was a . . . a sickness . . . a is Birth: 'the force that begins.' They were the First Twins, born to the worldwomb after union with her own dream. But there was a . . . a sickness . . . a tumour tumour-" he paused to savour the correct word as it occurred to him "-in the earthbelly with them. Rebekh-lajhnar-h'k Rebekh-lajhnar-h'k tore its way out of the worldwomb just behind them, or perhaps at the same time, or perhaps just before. It is the . . ." He thought hard for a translation. "The tore its way out of the worldwomb just behind them, or perhaps at the same time, or perhaps just before. It is the . . ." He thought hard for a translation. "The cancer-sibling cancer-sibling. Its name means: 'the force that cannot be trusted.' "

Yagharek did not tell the folk story in any incantatory, shamanic tones, but in the deadpan of a xenthropologist. He opened his beak wide, closed it abruptly, then opened it again.

"I am an outcast, a renegade," Yagharek continued. "It is . . . no surprise . . . if I turn my back on my traditions, perhaps . . . But I must learn when to turn to face them again. Lajhni Lajhni is 'to trust,' and 'to bind firm.' The Torque cannot be trusted, and nor can it be bound. It is uncontainable. I have known that since I first knew the stories. But in my . . . I . . . I am eager, Grimnebulin. Perhaps I turn too quickly to things from which I would once have recoiled. It is . . . hard . . . being between worlds . . . being of no world. But you have made me remember what I have always known. As if you were an elder of my band." There was one last, long pause. "Thank you." is 'to trust,' and 'to bind firm.' The Torque cannot be trusted, and nor can it be bound. It is uncontainable. I have known that since I first knew the stories. But in my . . . I . . . I am eager, Grimnebulin. Perhaps I turn too quickly to things from which I would once have recoiled. It is . . . hard . . . being between worlds . . . being of no world. But you have made me remember what I have always known. As if you were an elder of my band." There was one last, long pause. "Thank you."

Isaac nodded slowly.

"Not at all . . . I'm . . . mighty relieved to hear all that, Yag. More than I can say. Let's . . . say no more about it." He cleared his throat and prodded the diagram. "I've some fascinating stuff to show you, old son."

In the dusty light under Isaac's walkway, the repairman from Orriaben's constructs teased the innards of the broken cleaning machine with screwdriver and solder. He kept up a mindless jaunty whistling, a trick that took no thought at all.

The sound of the consultation above reached him as the faintest ba.s.s murmur, interspersed with an occasional cracked utterance. He looked up in surprise, briefly, at this latter voice, but quickly returned to the matter in hand.

A brief examination of the mechanisms of the construct's internal a.n.a.lytical engine confirmed the basic diagnosis. Apart from the usual age-related problems of cracked joints, rust and worn bristles-all of which the repairman quickly patched up-the construct had contracted some kind of virus. A programme card incorrectly punched or a slipped gear deep within the steam-driven intelligence engine had led to a set of instructions feeding back into themselves in an infinite loop. Activities the construct should have been able to carry out as a reflex, it had started to pore over, to attempt to extract more information or more complete orders. Seized by paradoxical instructions or a surfeit of data, the cleaning construct was paralysed.

The engineer glanced up at the wooden floor above him. He was ignored.

He felt his heart judder with excitement. Viruses came in a variety of forms. Some simply closed down the workings of the machine. Others led the mechanisms to perform bizarre and pointless tasks, the result of a newly programmed outlook on everyday information. And others, of which this was a perfect, a beautiful beautiful specimen, paralysed constructs by making them recursively examine their basic behavioural programmes. specimen, paralysed constructs by making them recursively examine their basic behavioural programmes.

They were bedeviled by reflection. The seeds of self-consciousness.

The repairman reached into his case and brought out a set of programme cards, fanned them expertly. He whispered a prayer.

His fingers working at astonis.h.i.+ng speed, the man loosened various valves and dials in the construct's core. He levered open the protective covering on the programme input slot. He checked that there was enough pressure in the generator to power the receiving mechanism of the metal brain. The programmes would load into the memory, to be actualized throughout the construct's processors when it was switched on. Quickly, he slid first one card, then another and another into the opening. He felt the ratcheting spring-loaded teeth rotate their way along the stiff board, slotting into the little holes that translated into instructions or information. He paused between each card to make sure that the data loaded correctly.

He shuffled his little deck like a cardsharp. He sensed the minuscule jerks of the a.n.a.lytical engine through the fingertips of his left hand. He felt for faulty input, for broken teeth or stiff, unoiled moving parts that would corrupt or block his programmes. There were none. The man could not forebear from hissing triumphantly. The construct's virus was entirely the result of information-feedback, and not any kind of hardware failure. That meant that the cards with which the man was plying the engine would all be read, their instructions and information loaded into the sophisticated steam-engine brain.

When he had pushed each carefully selected programme card into the input slot, each in considered order, he punched a brief sequence of b.u.t.tons on the numbered keys wired up to the cleaning machine's a.n.a.lytical engine.

The man closed the lid on the engine and resealed the construct's body. He replaced the twisted screws which held the hatch in place. He rested his hands on the construct's lifeless body for a moment. He heaved it upright, stood it on its treads. He gathered his tools.

The man stepped back into the center of the room.

"Um . . . 'Scuse me, squire," he yelled.

There was a moment of silence, then Isaac's voice boomed out.

"Yes?"

"I'm all done. Problems should be over. Just tell Mr. Serachin to load up the boiler with a bit of juice, then switch the old thing back on. Lovely models, the EKBS EKBS."

"Yeah, I'm sure they are," came the response. Isaac appeared at the railing. "Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked impatiently.

"No, guv, that's about it. We'll invoice Mr. Serachin within the week. Cheerio, then."

"Right, bye. Thanks very much."

"Don't mention it, sir," the man began, but Isaac had already turned and walked back out of sight.

The repairman walked slowly to the door. He held it open and looked back at where the construct lay face down in the shadows of the big room. The man's eyes flickered momentarily upstairs to check that Isaac was gone, then he moved his hands to trace out some symbol like interlocking circles.

"Virus be done," he whispered, before walking out into the warm noon.

CHAPTER T TWENTY.

"What am I looking at?" asked Yagharek. As he held the diagram he c.o.c.ked his head in a shockingly avian motion.

Isaac took the sheet of paper from him and turned it the right way up.

"This, old son, is a crisis conductor," Isaac said grandly. "Or at least, a prototype of one. A f.u.c.king triumph of applied crisis physico-philosophy."

"What is it? What does it do?"

"Well, look. You put whatever it is you want . . . tapped, in here." He indicated a scrawl representing a belljar. "Then . . . well, the science is complicated, but the gist of it . . . let's see." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "This boiler's kept very hot, and it powers a set of interlocking engines here. Now, this one's loaded up with sensory equipment that can detect various types of energy fields-heat, elyctrostatic, potential, thaumaturgic emissions-and represents them in mathematical form. Now, if I'm right about the unified field, which I am, then all these energy forms are various manifestations of crisis energy. So the job of this a.n.a.lytical engine here is to calculate what kind of crisis energy field is present given the various other fields present." Isaac scratched his head.

"It's f.u.c.king complicated crisis maths, old son. That's going to be the hardest part, I reckon. The idea is to have a programme that can say 'well, there's so much potential energy, so much thaumaturgic, and whatnot, that means the underlying crisis situation must be such-and-such.' It's going to try to translate the . . . uh . . . mundane, mundane, into the crisis form. Then-and this is another sticking point-the given into the crisis form. Then-and this is another sticking point-the given effect effect that you're after also has to be translated into mathematical form, into some crisis equation, which is fed into this computational engine that you're after also has to be translated into mathematical form, into some crisis equation, which is fed into this computational engine here here. Then what you're doing is using this, which is powered by a combination of steam or chymistry and thaumaturgy. It's the crux of the thing, a converter to tap the crisis energy and manifest it in its raw form. You then channel that into the object." Isaac was becoming more and more excited as he talked about the project. He could not help himself: for a moment, his elation at the ma.s.sive potential for his research, the sheer scale of what he was doing, defeated his resolve to see only the immediate project.

"The thing is, what we should be able to do is change the form of the object into one where the tapping of its crisis field actually increases its crisis state. In other words, the crisis field grows by virtue of being siphoned off by virtue of being siphoned off." Isaac beamed at Yagharek, his mouth open. "D'you see what I'm talking about? Perpetual f.u.c.king motion! Perpetual f.u.c.king motion! If we can stabilize the process, you've just got an endless feedback loop, which means a permanent font of energy!" He calmed in the face of Yagharek's impa.s.sive frown. Isaac grinned. His resolve to focus on applied theory was made easy, even pressing, by Yagharek's single-minded obsession with the commission in hand. If we can stabilize the process, you've just got an endless feedback loop, which means a permanent font of energy!" He calmed in the face of Yagharek's impa.s.sive frown. Isaac grinned. His resolve to focus on applied theory was made easy, even pressing, by Yagharek's single-minded obsession with the commission in hand.

"Don't worry, Yag. You'll get what you're after. As far as you're concerned, what this means-if I can make it work-is that I can turn you into a walking, flying flying dynamo. The more you fly, the more crisis energy you manifest, the more you can fly. Tired wings are a problem you won't face no more." dynamo. The more you fly, the more crisis energy you manifest, the more you can fly. Tired wings are a problem you won't face no more."

There was a troubled silence at that. To Isaac's relief, Yagharek did not seem to have noticed the unfortunate double-meaning. The garuda was stroking the paper with wonder and hunger. Yagharek murmured something in his own tongue, a soft, guttural croon.

Eventually he looked up.

"When will you build this thing, Grimnebulin?" he asked.

"Well, I need to actually knock together a working model to test it, refine the maths and whatnot. I reckon it'll take me a week or so to put something together. But that's early days, remember. Very Very early days." Yagharek nodded quickly, waved away the caution. "You sure you don't want to kip here? Are you still going to wander round like a ghul and spring on me when I least suspect it?" asked Isaac ironically. early days." Yagharek nodded quickly, waved away the caution. "You sure you don't want to kip here? Are you still going to wander round like a ghul and spring on me when I least suspect it?" asked Isaac ironically.

Yagharek nodded.

"Please tell me as soon as your theories advance, Grimnebulin," he asked. Isaac laughed at the polite bathos of the request.

"Certainly will, old son, you have my word. As soon as the old theories advance, you get to know."

Yagharek turned stiffly and walked towards the stairs. As he turned to say goodbye, he caught sight of something. He was still for a minute, then walked over to the far end of the walkway's east-facing side. He indicated the cage containing the colossal grub.

"Grimnebulin," he said. "What does your caterpillar do?"

"I know, I know, it's grown like f.u.c.k, hasn't it?" said Isaac, strolling over. "Tremendous little b.u.g.g.e.r, eh?"

Yagharek pointed at the cage and looked up questioningly.

"Yes," he said. "But what does it do?"

Isaac frowned and peered into the wooden box. He had moved it so that it faced away from the windows, which meant that its interior was shadowed and unclear. He squinted and peered into the darkness.

The ma.s.sive creature had crawled to the furthest corner of the cage and had somehow managed to climb the rough wood. Then, with some organic adhesive it exuded from its a.r.s.e, it had suspended itself from the top of the box. It hung there, pendulous and heavy, swaying and rippling slightly, like a stocking full of mud.

Isaac hissed, his tongue jutting from between his lips.

The caterpillar had tightened its stubby legs, curling them in tight towards its underbelly. As Isaac and Yagharek watched, it jack-knifed at its centre and seemed to kiss its own tail end, slowly relaxing until it hung deadweight again. It repeated the process.

Isaac pointed into the dimness.

"Look," he said. "It's smearing something all over itself."

Where the caterpillar's mouth touched flesh, it left infinitely thin glistening filaments, which stretched out taut as it moved its mouth away, adhering where they touched its body again. The hairs at the creature's hind end were flattened against its body, and they looked wet. The enormous grub was slowly smothering itself in translucent silk, from the bottom up.

Isaac straightened up, slowly. He caught Yagharek's eye.

"Well . . ." he said. "Better late than never. Finally, what I bought it for in the first place. The thing's pupating."

After a while, Yagharek nodded slowly.

"It will soon be able to fly," he said quietly.

"Not necessarily, old son. Not everything with a chrysalis gets wings."

"You do not know what it will be?"

"That, Yag, is the only reason I've still got the d.a.m.n thing. Wretched curiosity. Won't let me go." Isaac smiled. The truth was he felt a certain nervousness, seeing the bizarre thing finally perform the action he had been waiting for since he had first seen it. He watched it cover itself in a strange, fastidious inversion of cleanliness. It was quick. The bright, mottled colours of its pelt went misty with the first layer of fibres, then quickly disappeared from view.

Yagharek's interest in the creature was short-lived. He replaced the wooden framework which hid his deformity onto his shoulders, and covered it with his cloak.

"I will take my leave, Grimnebulin," he said. Isaac looked up from where the caterpillar held his attention.

"Right! Righto, Yag. I'll get a move on with the . . . uh . . . engine. I know by now not to ask when I'll see you, right? You'll drop in when the time's right." He shook his head.

Yagharek was already at the bottom of the stairs. He turned once, briefly, and saluted Isaac, and then he left.

Isaac waved back. He was lost in thought, his hand remaining in the air for several seconds after Yagharek had gone. Eventually, he closed it with a soft clap and turned back to the caterpillar's cage.

Its coat of wet threads was drying fast. The tail end was already stiff and immobile. It constrained the grub's undulations, forcing it to perform more and more claustrophobic acrobatics in its attempt to cover itself. Isaac pulled his chair over in front of the cage to watch its efforts. He took notes.

A part of him told him that he was being intellectually dissolute, that he should compose himself and focus on the matter in hand. But it was a small part, and it whispered to him without confidence. Almost dutifully. There was, after all, nothing that was going to stop Isaac from taking the opportunity to watch this extraordinary phenomenon. He settled into his chair comfortably, pulled over a magnifying lens.

It took a little over two hours for the caterpillar to cover itself completely in a moist chrysalis. The most complicated manoeuvre was at the head itself. The grub had to spit itself a kind of collar, then allow it to dry a little before bunching itself up within its swaddling, making itself shorter and fatter for a few moments while it wove a lid, closing itself in. It pushed against it slowly, ensuring its strength, then exuded more of the cement-filaments until its head was completely covered, invisible.

For a few minutes the organic shroud quivered, expanding and contracting in response to the movements within. The white covering became brittle as he watched, changed colour to a drab nacre. It pendulumed very gently as minute air currents disturbed it, but its substance had hardened, and the motion of the grub within could no longer be discerned.

Isaac sat back and scrawled on the paper. Yagharek was almost certainly right about the thing having wings, Yagharek was almost certainly right about the thing having wings, he thought. The gently moving organic sac was like a textbook drawing of a b.u.t.terfly or moth chrysalis, only vastly bigger. he thought. The gently moving organic sac was like a textbook drawing of a b.u.t.terfly or moth chrysalis, only vastly bigger.

Outside the light became thicker as the shadows lengthened.

The suspended coc.o.o.n had been motionless for more than half an hour when the door opened, startling Isaac to his feet.